


trashpile tumblr drabbles

by ehonauta (banzai)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Multi, implied kinks, just character study and fluff, no porn here folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:26:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3369500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banzai/pseuds/ehonauta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawkeye-centric drabbles from tumblr, likely to feature Kate/Clint/Barney or any duo thereof, and plenty of Pizza Dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. kate - coffee

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous prompted: hawkeye! and the smell of coffee

Kate was eight  the first time she really smelled it. It was warm and kind of… dusty? And rich like the raw silk of her grandmother’s favorite couch (that she was supposed to sit on VERY STRAIGHT but usually ended up smashing her face into the cushions because it just smelled so good). 

Her new au pair that year was Italian and an absolute coffee addict. Alessia had a routine first thing in the morning, making her two tiny cups of espresso with precision. Alessia — who Kate liked ok, except that she was kind of obnoxiously prissy sometimes — tried to get Kate to sit and appreciate the quiet of the early morning. Even tried teaching her to cook as a way to harness all that energy. 

But coffee was, funnily enough, what made Kate still. She’d sit with her face buried in the bag of roasted beans, breathing deeply. Alessia let her try a sip of her espresso once and Kate gagged, grabbing the bag of beans and crushing her face into it while she glared murderously. 

These days, coffee has probably replaced most of her blood. She drinks horrible Starbucks coffee drinks and shitty diner coffee and the godawful swill Clint makes in his ancient, mostly-broken coffee maker, and every once in awhile she’ll have a tiny, perfect cup of espresso. 

But while it’s brewing she buries her face in the bag of beans and lets herself appreciate the good stuff. 


	2. wet dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clint's had a shit day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is all when-it-rains-it-snows' fault. you all know why.

Clint trudges up the last of the 72 stairs to their apartment, feeling every single one of his years, and then some – maybe he got some of Kate’s years? Or worse, Lucky’s. That’s thirty-mumble plus twenty-nothing, plus ten times… 13? 7? How much is a dog year? Jesus his head hurts. This day is shit.

He lets himself in after only fumbling his keys three or four times, fingers too numb from cold and cramped from endlessly keeping his bow drawn. (I mean, he gets it – tense negotiations are better than death on either side, any day, but  _Christ_ his hands are feeling his role as “silent backup sentry” today.)

The apartment is warm, at least, and smells… well honestly, he can pretty much just smell himself at this point. It’s probably nice though. Lucky is conked out on the couch, taking up more space than one dog should reasonably be able to do.

Clint drops his bag and quiver unceremoniously next to the welcome mat and bolts the door behind him. He trudges into the kitchen, shoulders slumped, but feels warmth bloom somewhere in his gut when he sees Barney carefully splinting Kate’s clearly-broken nose, idly cleaning up the mess and then tossing bloody paper towels into the sink as he goes.

He feels his bones try to melt in relief and he half-stumbles, half-crawls over to them, ending up on all fours on the kitchen tile and pressing his face into the side of Kate’s knee. She reaches down to thread her fingers into his hair and gives his scalp a little skritch.

“Good boy,” she murmurs, voice a bit pinched and clogged from the swelling of her nose.

Clint makes a muffled sort of pleased  _mrrf_ noise in response, partially amusement, mostly in relief.

Barney finishes with the tape on Kate’s nose and taps a gentle finger to the blue-black bruises forming under her eyes. “Gonna have some futzing great shiners there, Katie,” he teases, sounding oddly proud.

“Hey, I earned ‘em. Which is more than you did, big scary thug man.”

“Yeah, yeah, not my fault you took ‘em out before I got wind of what they were doing.” He leans over to kiss her, bites a little at her chin as he pulls away. (They both know Kate hates to be coddled, even when she probably ought to be.) Her hand tightens a little and Clint closes his eyes to let the sensation wash over him.

Barney reaches down to wrap one meaty hand around the back of Clint’s neck. Clint visibly relaxes a little more, tipping his head back to rub the base of his skull against the side of Barney’s hand.

“Come on, big guy. It’s bathtime for you,” he orders.

Clint’s eyes fly open and he jerks his head up to stare at Barney accusingly (getting himself some pulled hair in the process from Kate’s hand still in its place).

“You stink. No wet dog reek allowed in this house.”

Clint slumps, hiding his face against Kate’s knee as much as he can with Barney still mostly holding him still.

“Come on, behave. You’ll soak for awhile, Kate’s futzing $12 a pop bath torpedoes will make you smell like a garden party, and you’ll be fit for proper company. And then maybe you’ll get a treat.”

Clint shivers a little. Maybe today isn’t so shit after all.


	3. U-P-C-Y-C-L-E-D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when-it-rains-it-snows prompted: Hawkeye squared, Upcycling

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows: Clint Barton is futzing _terrible_ at crosswords.

Ok, so that’s not entirely accurate. They don’t know he’s terrible because most of them don’t know he does them at all. Those who do (other than the obvious -- people who sometimes live in his apartment -- so that’s Nat, Bobbi, Jess… ok actually it’s probably a lot of people now) – are well aware that he stinks.

He’s not dumb, really, and his vocabulary is extensive, but it’s, well, specialized. Not to mention sometimes he thinks with his hands and then he can’t spell and the whole thing just goes down the toilet.

Anyway. Not that he’s complaining. It’s nice to be frustrated by something that he can just walk away from for a change (not that he ever _does_ …), but the point is --

“The point is, Katie, that this crossword is futzing broken.”

“What? No it’s not. They have, like, editors and stuff.”

He scoffs. “You don’t even do crosswords. Like you know anything.”

“It was on the Simpsons!”

“Oh. Yeah ok, point. Anyway. This answer is supposed to be RECYCLED except that it doesn’t fit with UNIVISION in 17 across, which I am super sure is right because I was just watching Sábado Gigante last week and --”

“Yeah, uh huh. What’s the clue?”

“17 Down, trash’s glamorous second life”

Kate snorts. “Should have gone with Madonna.”

“What?”

“Nevermind.” She sidles up to him, propping her bony chin on his shoulder to get a better look. “Oh, duh, it’s UPCYCLED”

“That’s not a word.”

“Uh, it _is_ , and it fits.”

“It’s totally not a word. Who even says that?”

“Like, a billion people on Etsy. And Ebay. Oh and also that time at that awful thing at the Grolier Club with CeCe Montague.”

Clint cranes his entire torso around to look at her, one hand automatically going to fiddle with his hearing aid and one bracing himself on the stool’s seat back. “Was any of that in English or is this thing on the fritz again?”  
  
Kate rolls her eyes and swivels the stool around so he’s un-pretzeled and plops herself in his lap. Elbowing his arm out of the way and stealing his pencil, she prints U-P-C-Y-C-L-E-D into the boxes, then leans back, satisfied, and mostly manages to not fall off of Clint’s lap. Clint’s arm comes around her to cage her in and she makes a pleased noise of thanks.

“Anyway. That benefit. Gala. Thing – I dunno, I think Ms. Potts said you had to go, because… team unity? And you made me go so I could run interference and also fix your tie. There were fancy books.”

“Oh, yeah, that thing. With all the terrifying blonde clone girls you went to high school with.”

“Yeah, well, CeCe Montague is like a villain from a Disney Channel movie – no, from the _third sequel_ to a Disney Channel movie, where the characters are all the same, but the actors have gone from B-list and Mickey Mouse club to, like, rejects from one-season CW shows and the plot is totally a retread of the same one from the first movie except they’ve somehow made it stupider and …”

Clint is not listening.

“Hey! Hawkeye!” She snaps her fingers in front of his nose and he makes an unimpressed face at her. “I know, I got off topic. Still, rude.”

“No, yeah, I know. Sorry. What were you saying _before_ you got on that weird Disney tangent that made me feel like a creep with you in my lap?”

She smiles sweetly at him and starts to open her mouth with an exaggerated innocent face, but he stops her. “Seriously, I’m listening. Don’t be an ass.”

She deflates a little. “Yeah. Anyway. CeCe was – oh, the one with the purple shoes that were almost awesome but were ruined by her incredible aura of bitchiness.” Clint nods, idly bringing his thumb to his forehead to half-sign “I remember.”

“Yeah I don’t think you were paying attention but she asked if I was such a Brooklyn hipster that I was upcycling dates now.”

Clint squints at her, brow furrowed. “What?”

“She was saying you were trash. Like, literal actual trash that I, like, BeDazzled in hopes of making you look cool.”

He shrugs. “I mean, trash isn’t really insulting for me. It’s not like I haven’t ended up in Dumpsters before.”

Kate looks suddenly pissed. “Yeah, well, _she_ doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know _you_. Hell, she doesn’t know me. Or any of the other Avengers that she was there desperately hoping to get a glimpse of. She doesn’t get to judge you. Literally nobody gets to judge you except me.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure that’s not true, Katie.”

She turns a fairly impressive glare on him. “ _Nobody_.”

He sighs. “Kate, people judge me every futzing day for what they think I am or what I’m not or the thousands of things they think I’m missing. It’s fine. It’s people.”

Her scowl turns thunderous, and she wriggles around to straddle his lap completely, reaching around him to grasp the seat back with both hands and cage him in. She glares directly into his eyes.

“OK, seriously. Are you listening? Nobody gets to judge you because _they don’t know you._ I get that they are going to. I’m just saying they’re gonna get it wrong, and I will futzing fight anyone who thinks that you’re trash or disposable or ‘that other Avenger’ or a screw-up or anything that is less than what you deserve.”

Clint opens his mouth to interject and she kisses him, swift and firm, to shut him up.

“Even you, asshole.”


	4. breath and smoke

Sirens are incredibly common in NYC, even in relatively sleepy corners of Brooklyn. Fire, ambulance, police – you see flashing lights out of the corner of your eye and you hear the weirdly metallic wail and after a while you stop really noticing.

Sometimes, though, the emergency vehicles convene to a point where the overlapping cacophony does catch your attention, and you crane your head around to see what you can see – police harassment or a traffic stop or some poor schmuck on a stretcher.

So Barney doesn’t really notice much of anything when the trucks and the SUVs go howling past him on his way back from the bakery. (It’s paczki time and he’s not gonna fucking miss the lemon ones this year, even if this fucking head cold means he can only taste overwhelming sweetness.)

As he draws closer, though, the sirens are louder, seemingly competing with each other for the privilege of making him as deaf as his dumb brother. He turns the corner and his steps slow.

The lights and the noise converge in front of his fucking front stoop, where people are clumped together awkwardly. He starts to walk a little faster, and the smell suddenly makes it through the congestion in his head – burnt plastic and woodsmoke and something harsher, oily and noxious.

He starts to run.

He speeds down the sidewalk, hoping vaguely that he won’t hit an icy patch in front of some asshole’s unsalted stoop, and comes barreling into the crowd, grabbing folks and looking for … well. He sees Simone, grabs her shoulders, shakes her a little in panic.

“Where are they? Are you ok? The boys? Clint? _Kate_? What happened? Where _are_ they?”

Her eyes are red and wet, and he’s never been so terrified in his life.

“Everybody’s ok,” she assures him, her voice scratchy. “Phil fell back asleep with the stove on, and the paper towels caught. The fire burned for a while before anyone noticed, so there’s some damage in a lot of the units. It’s mostly smoke, though I think his kitchen is pretty much a loss.”

“Fuck, oh thank _fuck_.” He pulls her into a hug, and finally notices the boys a few feet behind her, idly drawing patterns in one of the snow piles with what looks like a discarded coat hanger. The forgotten bag of donuts thwaps against her back as he starts to let her go and then changes his mind halfway through and clutches her again.

A heavy arm comes around him and he startles, before realizing it’s Clint tugging him out of the hug and into another one. Kate shimmies around to stand next to Simone and manages to snag the donuts one handed while half-crawling into Barney’s jacket for an uncharacteristic snuggle, so they’re all four entwined in a tangle of arms and torsos and puffer coats.

“Hey,” croaks Clint. “Probably should have gotten marshmallows instead. Could have made s’mores.”

Barney breathes out a short bark of a laugh and turns to land a smacking kiss on Clint’s temple. “Don’t fucking joke. And don’t fucking burn the house down while I’m out getting breakfast.”

Simone makes an unimpressed noise and Kate pokes him in the side. Barney gives them each a kiss on the forehead, something about the adrenaline come-down making him willing, for once, to actually show his love to these amazing women.


End file.
